TRACK FIVE:
LOLA

❝ well, i'm not the world's most passionate guy
but when i looked in her eyes,
well i almost fell for my lola
la-la-la-la lola ❞
— the kinks

.•° ✿ °•.

HANK: I thought we needed a new lead singer. [Shrugs] It's just the truth.

VICTORIA: Now, Richie can tell you what he likes, but he and Hank did not work as the frontmen of the band. It wasn't even down to talent, or anything, but the chemistry was just... off. A lot it's about charisma as well, isn't it?

FRANCESCA: ... Can I be really honest? In the beginning, when Richie was still with us, I didn't really feel like the band was as... cohesive, you know? It felt like I'd just latched onto the bumper of this band between two childhood friends, with whatever strange dynamic they had going on between them. It didn't feel like it was ours. There was always this– this kind of unspoken tension between them. Something didn't translate well. And I think that imbalanced the rest of us. We never really knew where we fit. The rest of us didn't really know what to do about it, so I guess we just went along with it all for a while.

CARLO: Richie was pretty territorial about the band, I remember. He once got really pissed off at me for saying he was maybe playing too fast on the first verse of 'Alley Cat'...

FRANCESCA: Anyway, we got to play some gigs, small crowds in dive bars mostly. It was fine. Just not the crowds we were hoping for, I guess. It wasn't exactly the Troubadour. But as always, good things come in their own time, don't they?

HANK: Regardless of what Richie said, I tried to secretly start looking around for guys who could lead the band.

INTERVIEWER: 'Guys'?

HANK: I mean— [Laughs] I say 'guys', honestly I was looking for anyone with a good voice and more stage presence than a dead squid. I just never expected the right fit for the band to be someone like... well, you know what I'm talkin' about. It could never have been anyone else, in the end...

But I'm getting ahead of myself here.

.•° ✿ °•.

     "Anyway, how've you been? I'm sick of talking about me..." Francesca laughs lightly, twisting the telephone cord around her fingers. She is currently leant next to the doorframe of her bedroom, listening to her brother's tinny laugh crackle in her ear; out on the view below, she watches a red-haired woman walk past briskly like she's on a mission.

     Tony has been hard to get a hold of for a while, now. She missed her brother. More than anything, he was the one who had spurred her onto this journey of music and self-discovery, so she always found her thoughts returning to him when there were new developments. He finally called her back today, eager to hear how things had been going in California; but now when Francesca turns the subject back to him, Tony seems to slither back into his shell.

     "Oh, I don't know..." he chuckles nervously.

     "Come on, you've been on the road for over a year now! Something's gotta be happening."

     "Something happened, alright, we're– uh..."

     A beat passes. For a moment, Francesca thinks she has lost him.

     "We're taking a break."

     "Oh, really?" she asks.

     The surprise is impossible to hide in her tone, and Francesca flinches; the discomfort seeps through from the other end of the line. She knows just how much The Avons mean to Tony, how much they have dictated the path of his life for so long. Truly, she believed they were getting somewhere, on the precipice of a breakthrough by getting their name out there — but perhaps not. Until she hears otherwise, she holds onto the hope that it is the former.

     Tony sighs; a long, dragged out one that feels heavy through the phone. "Yeah, uh, the boys had some... other ideas. Glenn sad something about an accounting job, or whatever... it's fine. I'm fine. Okay? I'm figuring it out."

     "What, so they want a more stable job or something?" Francesca asks further. She doesn't even mean to be nosy, or putting him down, she only means to show interest in the band that welcomed her in as a teenager.

     "I don't know. And the band was– it would've been stable, alright? If maybe some of them had taken it a little more seriously, and not treated it like some weekend hobby..."

     The bitterness drips from his voice. In her room, Francesca furrows her brows, suddenly wondering if she overstepped. What is he not telling her? Once again, she struggles to put together the missing puzzle pieces of her family since she left home — she used to see everyone every day, finding it impossible to get a moment's peace, and now? She is lucky if she can even get a phone call with them every other weekend. Money, time, work. It all gets in the way.

     All her hopes of Tony explaining what happened in any more depth vanish, as he diverts the subject. "Anyway, I'm gonna work with Bruno for a while," he says, "just so I'm not... you know... completely broke."

     "Bruno?" Francesca echoes the name of her eldest brother incredulously, grinning smugly. "You said you'd never go and work up on a roof with him in your life."

     "I wasn't that dramatic."

     "What were your words again? I think over my dead body was in there somewhere—"

     "It's only temporary!" Tony protests, luckily starting to sound lighter in tone now. "And, by the way, you're getting way too big-headed for your own good. It's all those big shots in L.A. getting to your head, I'll bet."

     "If there are big shots here, I haven't met them yet..."

     Hearing his sister's exhausted sigh, he asks: "So, did that meeting with the record label go okay? The one on Wednesday?"

     "It was a straight rejection. I think he said the band was lacking in a lot of areas, and that the demos felt uninspired, not what the label was looking for. Hank thinks we should have a new lead singer, but Richie's totally against it."

     "Sometimes you have to make some tough calls for the greater good of the band, and be willing to try something new."

     "... Like re-slating roofs?"

     "Come on, I'm actually being serious here!"

     "Sorry, sorry, you're right..." Francesca laughs apologetically.

     "Jokes aside," says Tony, pointedly, in a brotherly manner that suddenly makes her feel like a scrawny fifteen year-old again. "Connections to the music industry always come in pretty handy. Do you have any you can think of?"

     "No way," she scoffs. Then her eyes widen. "Wait, do you?!"

     "Pfft. I wish."

     "Francesca! We're still out of milk," Victoria's voice calls out from the living room; in her periphery, Francesca can see the blonde poking her head dismally into the fridge.

     "Is that the roommate you told me about?" asks Tony, curiously.

     "Yeah..."

     Indeed, the promise of a relatively clean flat not shared with the boys had appealed to Francesca, so she had moved in with her new bandmate a few weeks after joining. Victoria could certainly have been a much worse choice to share with — aside from the fact that whenever she did bother to cook, she found a way to burn every pot and pan they owned, she was quite fun to have around. She was quick-witted and well-informed, nothing being able to get past her.

     "Well, milk duty calls," Francesca says tiredly. "I should probably go now. But– but Tony?"

     "Mhmm?"

     "Try and call more often, okay? It's not like I'm in another country. I couldn't have done any of this without your advice along the way. So, just... call me."

     "... Yeah, I'll try. Bye for now."

     "Bye—" He hangs up abruptly, leaving Francesca to speak her I love yous to a dead end. Sighing, she places the phone back down on the receiver. She plucks off the small shoulder bag hanging on her bedpost and checks she's got everything in there — keys, wallet... and all the other trinkets burrowed in there. In the mirror, Francesca takes a quick glance at herself and rustles her hair, making sure it doesn't look too scruffy. She brushes some dust off from her black suede skirt and waistcoat, worn over a printed collared shirt.

     As Francesca walks out into the hall to leave, Victoria shakes her head in disbelief. "I still can't believe you grew up with four brothers," she says.

     "Me neither, sometimes," Francesca chuckles.

     "But it's nice that he gives you a ring now and then, isn't it?"

     "Oh, this was a one-off. He's usually a lot lazier..." In the short time they have known each other, Victoria has kept her home life under a strict lock and key. Francesca is sure she will deflect her attempts to find out more, but nevertheless, she tries to ask: "So, don't you ever wanna call your family back home?"

     Surely enough, the blonde does this again with a little roll of her eyes and a self-deprecating scoff. "If my parents ever picked up the phone and rang me up, just to say hello, I'd keel over from shock," says Victoria.

     There goes that conversation.

     Anyway...

     "So, anything else other than milk?" asks Francesca.

     Blowing out the air from her lips, Victoria shrugs. "Anything edible works fine. You're the one with the culinary skills, anyway."

     With a laugh, Francesca leaves her roommate alone in the apartment. She is getting more and more used to the streets shaded with tall palm trees, and the Californian sunshine that persists even deep into the autumn. It's not anything like home, but she supposes it will have to be now. There is a record shop she always passes on her way to the store, and if catches her eye every time. Today is no different — except there is a glaring beacon of wonder in the display window. That beacon being brand-new record sleeves for Abbey Road.

Of course! She can't believe she forgot about the new Beatles album, of all things. Her time has been mostly occupied with making ends meet and practicing, as of late.

... Maybe milk can wait.

Soon enough, after she walks in, Francesca finds the shelf with the few remaining Abbey Road copies. She snags one for herself before anyone else can beat her to it. An awestruck sigh slips past her mouth shaped like an O, turning the record sleeve in her hands. The bubbling excitement beneath her skin will never leave, no matter how many new albums she holds in her life — the anticipation of what she might discover inside. What new music will change her life next?

"Excuse me, could you...?"

Francesca snaps out of her daze and looks up. Next to her, a young woman appears to be the owner of the husky yet honeyed voice. Her face may be masked by a large pair of sunglasses and warm brunette bangs, but it cannot hide the energy she exudes; a kind of charisma that is impossible to miss in a single glance. A bell-sleeved dress printed with orange, yellow and red flowers swirls about her knees. The woman nods gently to the shelf, which Francesca is currently standing in the way of. Then the penny drops.

"Oh, sorry!" Francesca side-steps away, clutching onto Abbey Road for dear life.

"Thanks, hon," she replies, pursing her lips into a closed-mouth smile. For a few moments, she quietly browses the shelf, her delicate fingers flicking past each record sleeve. Then she notes Francesca's choice of album with a smile. "I hear that one got pretty mixed reviews," she nods coyly towards Abbey Road.

"Well, I don't really listen to the critics, I think they're full of– I mean... I just usually pick what I like."

At this, the woman looks up at her and grins. "Too damn right," she cheers her on. "The sooner you can learn that, the better."

Francesca nods in agreement with a chuckle, finding herself suddenly confused with a feeling swirling in her brain — a strange sort of deja vu. She is sure she has never met this girl before, and yet she feels... familiar. Overhead on the speakers, the song switches to an oldie but a goodie. The country ballad of 'Savannah' by Goldie Rhodes, the southern sweetheart of about five years ago, fills the room. Francesca can't say she ever came listened to country music as much in her adolescence, but all she knows is that Goldie possessed more talent in her pinkie finger at fifteen than Francesca probably does now.

Clearly, not everyone is feeling the Goldie fever. The woman in the sunglasses seems like she would rather be anywhere else, tensing up at the familiar intro. Francesca notices and lifts an eyebrow. "Not a fan?" she queries, amused.

"I just think... it's a little overplayed, don't you?" asks the woman in response.

"Maybe not where I come from."

     "Well, that's refreshing."

     "Still," says Francesca, "the girl's got talent. Nothing can change that. It's not her fault that... I don't know, that times move so fast, I guess."

     "Hm... that's one way to look at it." The woman smiles at her again — why is that smile so familiar? — and then picks up a record from the shelf, hugging it to her chest so it is obscured from sight. She whisks away to the counter, remaining an enigma in Francesca's eyes.

Weird.

From the speakers, 'Savannah' continues to play, sweeping into the chorus that switches it up from a shy, velvety voice to something more operatic. Now that she stops and really listens, Francesca finds herself frozen in time with the voice — perhaps she really has underestimated Goldie Rhodes for some years now. Her voice almost seems too big, too full of potential to be boxed into the pretty confines of a country pop album. With a small, impressed hum to herself, she doesn't think anything more of it...

Until she sees the album cover.

It's on her way to the counter, on the country music shelf. One of Goldie's last albums, Feather Town, stands on display to her. Francesca feels a pang of familiarity and, before she can stop herself, she's reaching out for it. The album cover pictures Goldie only slightly older than the fresh-faced, young teenager she emerged onto the scene as. She is curled up in the window of what looks like a country cabin, looking directly into the camera. It is so recognisably her — the warm brown hair, the almost oceanic blue eyes, the radiant smile that is limited at her lips but shines through everywhere else.

Wait...

"Have a nice day," the woman from before says to the cashier, keeping her head bowed as she re-adjusts her glasses. Francesca's gaze tracks her frantically, trying to put the pieces together — just then, the woman catches her stare in a flash of blue, and she knows. Just as quickly as she appeared, she is gone, but Francesca still knows.

     It has to be her. And if that is so...

She just spoke to Goldie Rhodes.

.•° ✿ °•.

Marigold Ann Rhodes, otherwise known as Goldie Rhodes, was born on May 31st, 1947 in Bell Buckle, Tennessee. Her passion and undeniable affinity for singing surfaced at an early age, where she'd participate in local and school talent shows. Later on, her family relocated to Nashville to help her music career, which she started aged just fifteen.

FRANCESCA: [Smiling] Where do I begin with Marigold?

ALICIA MALHOTRA: Marigold Rhodes. Goldie. When I think of that name, the word 'legend' comes to mind.

IRIS RHODES (music critic): I knew even when I was a kid that my sister was special. And, you know, not just because everyone told her she was. They only saw the kind of magic they wanted to extract for their own good. To me, Maggie — that's what I've always called her — was just my big sister who happened to sing like an angel. I loved her because she tried pushing me around in the pram when I was still small enough to fit, and she begged for me to let her brush my hair. Her musical talents kind of flew right over my head back then.

But obviously, I was in the minority there.

ALICIA MALHOTRA: Goldie already had her first hit by the time she was fifteen. Seriously, this girl was a household name in parts before she even came of age. She was discovered in 1962 at a school talent show, and her first single 'Savannah' is still one of the staples of country music's golden era... which is a seriously impressive achievement. Not to forget her other hit singles like 'Going South' and 'What Are Words?', and the fact that her rendition of 'Tennessee Waltz' arguably remains one of the most memorable. Ask anyone.

IRIS: It was overwhelming, how successful she became overnight. I was in Middle School when it all happened. It changed all our lives... obviously hers, most of all. My sister was suddenly taken away from me. Album after album, they just kept churning it out.

ALICIA MALHOTRA: Five albums before she turned twenty, including a Christmas one, and amongst those albums were a couple of other chart-toppers.

IRIS: After she finished High School, she moved out on her own to L.A. and signed up with a different record label. I think they wanted a poppier sound from her, or something? They always wanted something from her.

ALICIA MALHOTRA: Her last solo album in 1966, Feather Town, didn't perform as well commercially. Then before you could blink, she'd split away from her record label, and stumbled off the radar for a few years. It was radio silence, really. In the public consciousness, she'd started to fade into irrelevancy. I suppose it's easy to forget that when you consider how we think of her now.

IRIS: I'll be honest with you, when Maggie called me and said she'd started taking demos to different labels in L.A., my heart just sank. I just remember telling her, "What are you doing?" I thought she was walking straight back into the lion's den. What else did she have to prove to them?

ALICIA MALHOTRA: But it was far from over for Goldie. All of this was just the first chapter of her career, before joining what would become Solstice and re-inventing herself there.

.•° ✿ °•.

     Their set had been subpar, Francesca would say. Mistakes were made, the air was too thick with cigarette smoke and cheap beer to sing or see, and perhaps the worst of all — their hearts just weren't in it tonight. She figures Hank is right, about there being some kind of vacuum that requires a change in the group's dynamic. Something just isn't clicking. Rusted Rose certainly has a long way to go.

     But for now, all the band are concerned with is a good (and cheap) meal before they head home. It is all in a good day's work. Her skin sticky with sweat from inside the bar, Francesca gleefully inhales a lungful of crisper evening air outside — although it is still warm like a typically Californian October. The band exchanged tired conversation, loading their instruments and equipment into the small van Hank bought, which constitutes for their so-called tour bus right now.

     "I enjoyed your set tonight," says a disembodied voice, smooth like honey.

One that Francesca recognises.

She turns around first, then so do the others, like a domino effect; surely enough, there she stands. Goldie is backlit by the amber glow from within the dive bar, illuminating every wisp of her hair surrounding her like a halo. Almost teasingly, she tilts her head at the group, lips curled into a smile. Francesca straightens up, surprised but not as starstruck as the first time. What is Goldie doing here, of all places?

"Wait, you– you remember me?" she raises her eyebrows.

"Abbey Road, right? 'Course I do," says Goldie. "You never told me you were in a band."

"To be fair, you never said that you were... who you are."

"Well, I usually don't have to introduce myself to people, so it was refreshing..."

Silence stretches out between them. Surrounding Francesca, the rest of Rusted Rose all seem equally perplexed to the natural-feeling rapport she has with the former starlet — the guitarist had only told them all about the meeting as a fun anecdote, and thought nothing more of it until now. Goldie walks forward, slightly perturbed by the silence, and scratches the corner of her lips with one fingernail.

"... But since y'all are still gawking at me, I'm just gonna cut to the chase. I'm Marigold."

"I know," Carlo blurts out enthusiastically. When Francesca first told them all that she'd met Goldie, he was by far the most excited — in fact, she swears she saw him checking his hair in the rear-view mirror when the singer appeared.

CARLO: Look, my family listened to a lot of country music growing up, and one of my sisters in particular loved her music. She had posters on the wall and everything... in hindsight, it's kinda weird foreshadowing, isn't it? [Smiles brightly]

Hank, although not as fazed by her presence, still fixates his gaze completely on her as he goes around the circle. "Well, I'm Hank," he introduces himself. "The drooling puppy here is our drummer, Carlo; then that's Richie on keys, Victoria on bass, and Francesca on rhythm guitar." In response, the other band members finally respond with a blended mixture of mumbles.

     "I suppose we never expected to bump into you... here, of all places," Victoria admits, looking distastefully at the flickering sign above the door, with moths fluttering around it.

     "I could say the same for you guys," says Goldie.

     "We're just testing the waters for now," Hank clarifies, looking her up and down. "... And we're looking for a lead singer."

     "Oh. Any luck yet?"

     "Not yet—"

     "We don't actually need one, it's some idea that Hank got into his head," Richie suddenly interjects. He exudes a feigned confidence, towering long and lanky over his friend as he ruffles his hair. In response, Hank snaps away from his embrace; his patience with Richie seems to be wearing thin recently. Francesca, herself, remains puzzled over the tightly-wound keyboardist. What is his goddamn problem? Or, more curiously, how did he and Hank ever become friends?

     Even Goldie seems to sense the tension, because she nods decisively with a hum. "... Well, I hope you find the right one soon."

     She turns to leave, but is stopped by the scrape of Hank's shoes against the gravel. He lunges forward at first, only stopping a foot away from her as Goldie turns again. "Hey, um..." he clears his throat and scratches his head, "maybe you could help us out. We're trying to get noticed by a label, 'cause then we could really get going with making an album. Since you're a... seasoned musician," Hank says, gesturing vaguely to all of Goldie, "you think you could maybe, uh... hook us up with someone?"

The brunette raises her eyebrows, looking to and fro the band. "You want me to pass on a good word to one of the big record labels in L.A. so your band can get a big break?"

"Well, yeah, kinda."

No words of wisdom flow in the beginning. Instead, Goldie lets out a harsh laugh — a jadedness creeps into her eyes as she does. Hank cannot seem to understand the joke, looking around at the others for guidance. They just shrug cluelessly. Francesca knows she understands one thing... that, clearly, they are all way out of their depth in this business. Goldie then steps forward to Hank.

"It's Hank, isn't it?"

"Yeah—" his breath hitches as she places a hand on his shoulder, friendly but firm. Hank looks down at her hand, surprised, then back up at her. Goldie's stare, however, is dead serious, as she delivers the cold, hard truth.

"Hank, your optimism is very sweet, but... if you think you can just rock up to L.A. and get a record deal on the spot, you're being delusional." Goldie pauses, faltering slightly. "This industry is full of wolves, and people like you are fresh meat they can rip up or leave to rot. Many people never make it to the top."

     Francesca feels a chill roll down her back. She would have thought someone like Goldie to be the poster-child of the industry, not the one making it sound so foreboding.

     "Well, what about the people who do make it?" asks Carlo innocently.

     "It's not all it's cracked up to be. But just keep trying, and trying, and trying. That's the best I can give you." Sighing tiredly, Goldie gives them a little wave. "Anyway... good luck with it all. I really hope you get somewhere."

     Her words linger like a sour note. Francesca is left mulling over her words, or more importantly, that look she had when she spoke them. She's sure Goldie is only a year or so older than her, but she carried the kind of heaviness she usually only sees in jaded adults. Did the industry really do that to her? In her heart of hearts, Francesca would like to think that she'd find a way. That she would be immune to the sharpened claws of the industry giants.

     But then she remembers the trials and tribulations of New York, and how it had left her motivation battered and bruised. Or how they are all scraping together everything they can to make this band work, even though they feel aimless in their pursuits...

     Perhaps it isn't so far-fetched.

And maybe the both of them aren't so different after all.

From there, they could just Goldie Rhodes walk off into the sunset. She certainly almost gets away with it. The others have already seemed to move on, packing up to go — but not Francesca. Instead, she is hit with the sudden, striking urgency that all of this is happening for a reason. They cannot let Goldie slip away.

"Wait, wait—" Francesca runs after her and halts in front of her. Goldie just watches her catch her breath in surprise. "Listen," she pants, "you don't know me, and I don't know you either. But... if what I'm thinking is true... then we might just be looking for the exact same thing. When was the last time you made a record?"

Goldie flinches at this question, like it brings up a bad memory; Francesca tries to scale things back down.

"You're incredibly talented. I mean, come on, everyone who's heard you knows it. I'm not even a big fan of your old stuff — no offence!" she adds hastily, to which Goldie actually grins ear-to-ear. "But I could bet that you still have so much to give."

For a while, the retired starlet just studies Francesca — slowly trying to assess whether she is worth her time. Then, finally, Goldie stares down at the ground and back up at her, seeming quizzical.

"What are you asking me?"

From her pocket, Francesca retrieves two demo tapes. She had slipped them out of Hank's bag when he wasn't looking. Somehow, preparing to hand them over to this girl she hardly knows feels more rewarding, than the couple of visits they have attempted to various record labels so far. Inside them are hours of hard work. It is never an easy thing to surrender — a price always paid for being an artist, she guesses.

"Just listen to these, if you get the chance," Francesca says hopefully. "And... I don't know, if you feel inspired... come and see us some time."

Goldie turns the tapes thoughtfully in her hands, smoothing her thumb over the peeling label that reads 'RUSTED ROSE'. Opposite her, Francesca waits with bated breath for any sort of response. Maybe this is all a stupid idea. What is she thinking? Foolishly hoping that someone with better things to do will give them the time of day. Surely she won't act on any of this, right?

Or perhaps...

"You got a pen?" Goldie asks at last. "I can't find you guys again if I don't know where to look... can't rely on destiny all of the time."

.•° ✿ °•.

FRANCESCA: I don't know that I expected her to do anything with the tapes. It was a spur of the moment thing. But, for the sake of argument, I guess... I felt a connection to Marigold. You know, we'd bumped into each other twice already, by chance, and that had to mean something. Although I'm not sure I believe in destiny, or anything — I just think life will give you a sign for a reason, and that you can only ignore a sign for so long...

... Wait, I guess that kind of is destiny, isn't it?

[Francesca laughs]

Alright, fine! I guess I believe in destiny. But I can't speak for Marigold.

.•° ✿ °•.

     It would have been sensible to assume that Goldie Rhodes would never pay the band any attention.

     But just two weeks after she took home their demos, she appears to them during practice. They are in the middle of the chorus of 'Bite The Bullet' when Goldie shows up — they cease the playing of their instruments abruptly, awkward squeaks and clanks abounding. Francesca feels herself perking up once she sees the singer, although shocked she even came at all. She definitely hadn't expected her to come back this quickly.

"Hi," Hank says first, surprised.

"Hey..." Goldie waves the familiar demo tape in front of them. "So, I had a listen to your demos."

     "You– wait, what?"

     Balancing her elbow on the side of her guitar, Francesca bites back a triumphant smile as her stare burns into the floor.

"They're good," she seems to say genuinely. "It's not a bad start. I have to admit, 'Where I'm Going' really stood out. It's so energetic and– I mean, don't quote me on this, but– pretty catchy."

     "Really?" Hank straightens his back, a slight smirk playing across his face. Of course he would be pleased — he wrote the song, and Francesca has to admit, it is one of Rusted Rose's stronger tracks. Unlike 'Alley Cat', penned by Richie, which she quietly thinks is more creepy in its message, than sultry like how its writer sees it.

     "And you were playing 'Bite The Bullet' just now, right? I liked than one too... and 'Rumble'."

     A beat passes. Goldie looks them all up and down, like she can't quite believe she is about to say what she is. She brushes her hair forward over her shoulders and sighs. "So," she says in a sing-song manner, tilting her head at the band, "are you guys still looking for that lead singer?"

     "No—"

     "Yeah," Hank cuts Richie off, "Why?"

     Goldie seems surprised that she has to spell it out. So she looks down at her feet, then back up at him, then laughing heartily. "You don't think I drove from the other side of town just to give you back your demos, did you?"

"... You want to audition?"

Francesca's eyes widen, her head snapping to face Hank, as if to say: Do not screw up this chance. He seems surprised by the idea, but not entirely against it. Meanwhile, Victoria and Carlo seem completely on board with the idea, relieved like Francesca at the idea of that role being filled at last — after all, anyone who's heard her records knows she can sing. Richie, however, tenses up the moment the penny drops for him.

     "Well, we could always hear y—"

     "Before we do," Richie quickly cuts him off, "I think we'll all just need to have a quick discussion."

     Goldie just hums, smiling sweetly at him; it is a hilarious contrast to the constant snarl that he wears. Still, Richie manages to feign politeness until he and the rest of the band leave her in the garage, stood under the open sun as the 'discussion' kicks off. Francesca only expects the worst — opposition on all fronts — and surely enough, it comes.

"Letting her join the band, are you crazy?!" Richie whisper-yells. "We might as well call goddamn Doris Day and ask her if she wants to sing backup, while we're at it."

"Aw, grow up, Rich," Hank snaps tiredly. "We need something, okay? I'm sick of all these 'maybes' and 'better luck next time'. I wanna actually get somewhere."

     At the same second that Francesca is thinking it, Victoria voices her thoughts: "Just think about this for a minute. Goldie's got industry experience, clearly. And we know she can sing."

     "Exactly," says Francesca. "That's more than we could ask of any other stranger auditioning to be a lead singer."

     "Who knows? She might even have some good tips for us."

"We have nothing to learn from her. She has nothing to teach us." Turning to the drummer, who has been quiet so far, Richie asks: "Carlo? You're in on all this too?"

"I mean..." Carlo shrugs innocently, a twinkle in his eyes. "If the Stone Poneys can have Linda Ronstadt, why can't we have Goldie?"

"Because we're not the Stone Poneys!"

Then, with a mischievous smirk, Victoria just has time to quip to Carlo: "And given the choice, you'd just have Linda Ronstadt in the band, wouldn't you?" To this, the drummer can only nod in infatuated agreement. Very little can get in-between Carlo and his unconditional love for Linda Ronstadt.

The irritated keyboardist narrows his eyes at them all. God, why was Richie always such a stick in the mud?

"We don't need a lead—"

     "Wait, shhh... do you guys hear that?" Hank suddenly asks. He raises one finger into the air, silencing their squabbling. Carried along the faintest breeze, invisible to anyone not paying attention is... yes, they're sure of it, the chime of a keyboard melody drifting their way. And not just any tune. It's the opening to 'Where I'm Going' — only slower, stripped to just the singer and its keys.

     Like a siren's song, its voice lures them all in, hypnotised...

Goldie has simply sat herself down in front of Richie's keyboard and started to play. Stripped back like this, her voice truly gets to shine as the star of the show. Francesca only remembers the sweet country ballads she used to croon on the radio, but she has never heard Goldie like this — her tone deeper, richer, and crystal clear. Every word is enunciated like it all means something. Her voice creeps up on the high notes, reaching an operatic height that makes goosebumps erupt across Francesca's skin.

     "Where I'm going, there ain't no promises
     And ain't no use to cry about tomorrow
     Come on baby, I know I want you
     Come on baby, you know you want to
     Follow me where I'm going..."

     Finally pulling herself out of the moment, Francesca glances sideways at the rest of the group. They are similarly entranced — Carlo is grinning in awe, Victoria is nodding like everything has fallen into place. Even Richie seems to soften begrudgingly, like even he cannot deny her talent. But it is Hank who seems the most floored by the performance. It's not a flashy spectacle, yet he stares at her like the world has cracked wide open just for him. Like she is the answer to everything. Surely he must feel it:

     The magic.

     After that, it is hard to say no to Goldie Rhodes.

.•° ✿ °•.

FRANCESCA: So, I guess Marigold was... technically in the band at that point. Those times were just murky, honestly. I don't think we had any idea what direction we were going. The band felt like one big revolving door, people leaving and entering all the time. But I did get this sense that whatever this mismatched group was, that Marigold belonged with us somehow.

VICTORIA: I thought we were getting somewhere. Except for Richie, who I can only remember constantly walking around like he had something up his arse.

HANK: [Sighs] I mean... I get it, he was frustrated. The plan had been to take this band, Rusted Rose, with our friends from back home, and that would be the band. That was the plan. Now it was becoming something neither of us recognised. Was I a little freaked out by that? Sure, but I also saw it as an opportunity. A big break is a big break, whoever happens to be at the top with you, right? And that's what I was chasing.

But Richie? Well, that was a different story. I think he just got more and more angry that the band wasn't... wasn't what he thought it should be. Maybe I should've considered that more, I don't know. Either way, his attitude was really startin' to piss me off. He couldn't at least be grateful that we had something. Rich just couldn't get past the fact that... well, three girls had joined the band, and they gave him a run for his money. That's how I think it happened.

INTERVIEWER: Did it cross your mind about—

HANK: About having three girls in the band? God, if I had a nickel for every time I've heard this question... no. I just wanted to make music. If I saw a two-legged goat playing Jimi Hendrix on the street then, shit, I probably would've dragged it into the band too. But obviously not everyone saw it so black and white as I did. It's just a shame Richie could never see it. 'Cause the girls really brought something special.

FRANCESCA: I think it was that December in '69, when this golden opportunity came up. It was Marigold who spotted it. At one of the bars on the Sunset Strip, there was going to be a seat reserved for someone from a big record label. Didn't know who at the time, but that was incentive enough for us — we had to make a good impression. So we practiced and practiced, until our set was starting to feel pretty tight and professional, and things were looking up for us, until about a day before we were gonna perform...

Things always blow up in your face at the worst possible time, don't they?

.•° ✿ °•.

     The tell-tale sign of the big day being tomorrow is that Francesca's stomach is in knots. In just over twenty four hours, they will potentially be performing in front of someone with the power to give them the keys to the kingdom. Just that thought nauseates her slightly... but why? Isn't this what she wanted? Instead, she finds her palms sweating and her fingers slipping over the guitar strings.

At least she isn't the only one feeling the pressure. Hank and Richie seem to grinding on each other's nerves more than ever, relentless to get each run-through perfect. Carlo keeps speeding through too fast while keeping pace on the drums. Victoria is unusually lacking in some dry, witty comeback for all of the tension. Even Goldie, although relatively calm, doesn't seem like her heart is entirely in it — like she can sense the nerves of the others and is absorbing it.

"Just– stop for a sec..." Hank holds up his hand.

     Halfway through 'Rumble', they stop, to the clatter of drumsticks and guitar riffs being halted. This on-and-off has been happening all morning — maybe a week ago it would have been less stressful, but the big performance tomorrow. From the back, Carlo sheepishly scratches his head. "Sorry," he admits, "I think I was a little fast on that one."

"That's okay," Goldie says generously, "we'll go again."

In the corner of her eye, Francesca sees Richie clench his jaw.

"From the top?" Hank asks.

"Sure."

FRANCESCA: We all knew things were tense, especially that day. But I don't think anyone expected things to escalate the way they did.

"No, wait, stop..." It's Goldie who asks to stop this time. Carlo is better at the pace now, but that does not seem to be the issue anymore. Furrowing her brows, she rests both her hands on her hips. "Something's still not right," she says.

"Yeah, no shit!" Richie suddenly explodes.

In a fit of rage, he gets up and kicks the chair he was just sitting on — it lands on the floor with a loud BANG, making the others yelp in shock at the noise. The keyboardist is left fuming, like a ticking time bomb that has finally gone off. What the hell just happened? Francesca instinctively backs away from him, not sure she wants to be quite as near anymore. But no one reacts more intensely to Richie's outburst than Hank.

"What the fuck, Rich?" he snaps. His stare, directed at Richie, is as though it has been sharpened on a knife edge.

Trying to diffuse the situation, Goldie interjects: "Look, we're all tense, there's no need to—"

"Actually, no. Don't let this slide. Because he's really starting to piss me off."

"Oh, I'm pissing you off?" Richie asks incredulously, before letting out one sharp laugh that is loaded with bitterness.

Hank removes his guitar now, setting it to the side as he asks, "So what is it, huh, Richie? Why do you have to be such a dick about everything we do?"

"All of it! Fucking all of it!" he throws his hands up in the air. "This band was meant to be ours. Then the second Tommy and Frank left, you just went cherry-picking new people like it was nothing. It started in Pittsburgh with her —" Richie suddenly whirls around and points at Francesca; she feels her skin burn with humiliation and, now, offence. "— and it's only gotten worse since we got here to L.A."

"Well, you didn't have a problem with Carlo, do you?" Hank points out to him.

"Uhh—" Carlo says, like a deer in headlights, only to be cut off again.

"You're ruining the band!" Richie hisses at Hank. "I don't even recognise the songs anymore, they're nothing like they used to be—"

"Because they left!" Hank hollers back at him. "God fucking damn it, they left, alright? I wish they didn't, but they did. The band was never gonna be the same. I get if you're upset about that, I am too, but you're such... you're such a prick! About everything. You don't do the work, and then you throw a tantrum like a little baby when it doesn't go your way..."

Clearly, this is no longer just stemming from today's rehearsal. This is a much deeper-rooted issue, between just the two of them, going back even beyond when the rest of the band joined in — it feels as though it has been a long time coming. Meanwhile, the rest of Rusted Rose are sat in a pressure cooker. The bandmates look to and fro, observing both sides of the argument, and struggling to get a word in edgeways.

Leaning in to whisper to Victoria, Francesca asks: "Should we...?" while shooting a sideways glance at the door.

But Victoria shakes her head, sitting in a bit closer now like this is prime entertainment. "No, no," she murmurs, "it's just starting to get good..."

Hank is on a roll now, as he says to Richie: "Look around you, Rich... everyone here is talented as hell, and they are working their asses off. And all you do is complain about what we don't have. You haven't changed since we were kids!"

Words now seem to fail Richie. So, the keyboardist resorts to other means, as he suddenly charges towards Hank, going to get all up in his face. Only now does the rest of the band snap into action, Carlo holding back Richie, while Francesca does the same for Hank — she has diffused fights between her brothers a handful of times during her childhood, even when they were over the pettiest of things. Meanwhile, Goldie stands in between the two men, overwhelmed at just how intense this argument got in such a short time.

"Stop, just stop..." Goldie pleads them.

But Hank brushes her away, distilling his anger into a calm, contained rage. "I've got it, I've got it..."

"I'm not gonna watch you ruin this band," Richie says through gritted teeth.

"Good. So you should get out of here."

"Fine. I will. I'll quit—"

"No, I'm kicking you out," Hank clarifies in a low voice. "Go back to the flat... pack up your shit... and leave."

After all the carnage, the room falls into an abyss of silence, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Francesca can feel her fingers tightened around the neck of her guitar; in her periphery, she sees Victoria's jaw slacken in awe. Breathing heavily, Richie looks around at the band, gauging their reactions. The only thing he receives in return is quiet hostility — although Francesca likes to avoid conflict, this has been her last straw with him. Richie's true colours have certainly been shown.

With little other choice, Richie takes the wise option of booking it out of the room.

A couple of beats pass, of awestruck silence.

Then Victoria begins to slow-clap, as if she had been waiting for this all along. She is only stopped by the death stare she gets from Goldie, which promptly ceases her clapping — Francesca has to admit, she was thinking the exact same thing deep down. Good riddance. Any other day, she might express this emotion more outwardly, but now there is an obvious dilemma...

They have no keyboardist.

Usually, it might not be as vital of a gap in the band... but Richie had made it his mission to smother every single song with plethoras of his parts, so much so that they feel empty without him.

"So... what now?" Carlo finally says.

"Well, I s'pose you can clear your calendars for tomorrow," says Victoria, "because we're not performing at the—"

"No," Hank says. The others stare at him in confusion at first, so he says it again. "No. We're not gonna let Richie screw us over like that, not after the hard work we've put in. That's not fair."

"But we don't have—" Francesca begins to say.

"Goldie, you can play piano, right? Just learn his parts and you'll be fine."

"In a day?" Goldie retorts. "Are you crazy?!"

"Do you have any better ideas?"

Although not averse to the idea, Goldie is still suspicious of whether Hank is really up for this. She tilts her head at his face, still flushed with the heat of subsiding anger. "Are you sure you don't wanna miss this one out?" she asks.

"No way, we're not letting this slip past us."

Face hardened with determination, Hank crosses over the room back to his guitar, hanging the strap over his shoulder. It is fascinating to watch — as if he ripped off the band-aid, and it meant nothing to him. Pleasant or not, he and Richie clearly had a lot of history. Does he not feel the sting at least slightly? Perhaps that will come later.

"From the top..." Hank says, nodding to Carlo.

.•° ✿ °•.

RICHIE DONOVAN (former keyboardist, Rusted Rose): Look, Hank and the others are gonna try and make me look like the bad guy, but I have my own story too! I was always focused on the music. Always. I just... didn't like the direction we were taking. You know, in rock and roll, girls don't really fit that whole world. No one really wants to see that. I've been sayin' this for years. But Hank, he... he got lured in by the girls. I think they messed with his head. He got soft on them. So that's why I quit.

HANK: He actually said that? What a fuckin' dick.

FRANCESCA: I think it became pretty clear, the longer we stayed with Rusted Rose, that Richie had some very specific problems with us. Compare that with Carlo, for example, it was never an issue that he joined the band. But when it was me or the other girls? Yeah... totally different story. [Folding her arms across her chest] You can figure out the rest.

VICTORIA: I mean, if he was so bothered about me showing some skin, he should've kept his eyes off my legs and on his fucking keyboard... I'd say something more colourful about him, but I don't think it's suitable for television.

HANK: And, for the record, he did not quit. We kicked his ass out of the band. Deservedly so.

CARLO: Yeah... we were definitely better off without Richie.

INTERVIEWER: So, did you guys end up performing?

FRANCESCA: Well, you know what they say. The show must go on. So we did... but it was so bad. I mean, we crashed and burned, there's no denying that. And there was no way we deserved a second chance, not after that disaster. I was convinced we'd blown it... but...

[With a knowing glance at the camera, she shrugs her shoulders]

I guess not everyone believed that.

.•° ✿ °•.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

hi strangers... i promise i hadn't forgotten about this fic! between giving some other stories some TLC, and having writer's block for this particular chapter, there were various obstacles in the way. there was originally a completely different route taken to richie's departure from the band, but it just wasn't working at all, so i had to completely re-work my plan for chapter 5 which took some time. hopefully the final result is somewhat better — i'm a little more insecure about the chapters not revolving around daisy jones and the six, because therefore they rely purely on original scenes!

how do we feel about goldie rhodes so far? she seems quite enigmatic at the moment, and she might always remain that way, but things will gradually be revealed about her character and her past. solstice is almost fully-formed, the only missing piece being my boy dougie 🥰 sit tight for his introduction...

speaking of keyboardists, i'm so glad that i'm done writing richie, part of my writer's block came just from being irritated with him specifically. being annoyed with your own character is truly a wild experience. so good riddance to him!

side note: i recently watched 'this is a film about my mother' which stars will harrison and his sister, tess, who also wrote and directed it i think. my review is simply TEARS. EMOTIONS. 😭 also his performance is incredible, and i'm still amazed i managed to find it on amazon prime for free! (in the UK, at least, it might not be the case if you're reading this now). anyway, if you are able to watch, i'd highly recommend it. will sings & plays a bit of guitar in the film, and my little graham heart was so happy.

Published: October 22nd, 2023
Edited: October 26th, 2024